


Cathedral

by LeetheT



Category: The Man from UNCLE
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	Cathedral

_This follows “Reasons.” Apparently I couldn’t let it go._

Napoleon Solo moved up the nave of St. Paul’s, deftly avoiding the tourists. He pulled his rain-damp coat tighter around him, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. It was cold, and he was shivering, but not because of the weather.

He felt all the strangeness of his presence in this place. People of faith came to a church for comfort in times of bereavement or doubt. Here he was, bereft, full of doubt — but he had no faith that any god could put those things right. Hadn’t his entire life been an example of the conviction that man was the source of good and evil?

_Not your entire life._  He was keenly aware of that gap in living, of the 15 years spent hiding.

Hiding from two things, the two most precious things he had ever known. He’d been given one of those things back — UNCLE needed him, they’d come to him, and part of him had sparked back into life. The other ... the other he’d had to work for, but it was worth it. God, it was worth it.

Napoleon blinked up at the ceilings, immensely distant and ornate, listening to the murmur of awed voices and their echoes. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Anyone who noticed him would probably think he was simply moved by the glory of St. Paul’s.

Two things. He’d never imagined he couldn’t have both. But, typically, Illya Kuryakin had had other ideas.

~*~*~

Illya’s penthouse bedroom was like the living room, decorated in primary colors, absent of bric a brac. Practical. Unsentimental, but not cold. A broad window overlooked more of London, including the distant dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Illya stopped and turned to face him. His eyes locked onto Napoleon’s, no longer doubting, or angry, radiant with trust. He waited, ageless, effortlessly beautiful. Illya.

Napoleon was overwhelmed by a wave of fear that forced the words “I love you” from his mouth as if they were a shield against hurt, rather than an invitation.

Illya did not smile. “I love you too. I always have.” He held out his hands and Napoleon moved into his embrace with a sound that — if he were not a cynical old bastard — he might have likened to a sob.

Illya held him for a long silent time, warm, strong, certain.

Napoleon breathed deep of his partner’s scent, but only when Illya began to gently stroke his back did his body stir, tingling.

“Illya....” He rested his face on Illya’s shoulder, kissing his neck, tasting his skin, feeling his own heart accelerate. “God...”

“This is no time for prayer, Napoleon,” Illya said. The familiar amusement in that warm voice made Napoleon laugh, at the same time stirring his blood faster, hotter throughout his body. He drew back, stared at the beloved face before him, knowing that whatever happened tonight, whatever he did or did not do, it would be right.

Napoleon slipped his arms around Illya, pressing his body close, tight, sliding his hands down once more to cup Illya’s ass, caressing the curve of muscle under the heavy denim. His cock grew harder in response, a rush of fire he hadn’t felt in a long time, and he moved his hips against Illya’s.

Illya moaned low in his throat and licked Napoleon’s mouth, slipping his tongue between the American’s lips to tease the sensitive flesh inside. Illya eased Napoleon’s suitcoat off his shoulders and dropped it onto a chair, his mouth never abandoning Napoleon’s. His hands pressed Napoleon’s back, slid lower in a possessive embrace that made Napoleon gasp, then draw back to laugh.

He caught Illya’s questioning gaze with his own, said, “It really is the quiet ones you have to watch, isn’t it?”

Illya lowered his eyes to Napoleon’s throat, nimble fingers undoing the tie, starting down the row of buttons. Meanwhile Napoleon stroked Illya’s backside like a kitten, watching without thought as the tie and shirt fell atop his jacket.

Illya tsked at Napoleon’s undershirt. “You’re so old-fashioned.” The murmured complaint sounded like an endearment. He pulled the t-shirt up, and Napoleon raised his arms to ease its removal. Before he could drop his arms, Illya’s hands stroked their length and cupped Napoleon’s back, tracing the hard trapezius muscles, framing the still-narrow waist and pulling them close for another slow-burn kiss. Napoleon knotted his fingers in his partner’s hair, breathing deeply as Illya’s hands explored his body, glad now that he had kept himself in shape.

He slid his hands down Illya’s chest and plucked at the hem of the sweater. Illya growled softly and pulled it off, flinging it aside and glaring at Napoleon through mussed golden bangs. Napoleon watched the still-nicely-muscled chest expand rapidly with his partner’s breaths. He smiled and set his own fingers to the task of unbuttoning Illya’s jeans. Though they weren’t tight, it wasn’t the kind of task that could be done delicately — delicacy became even more of a problem when Napoleon saw, after the third button, that Illya wore no underwear. A tidal wave of heat flashed through him; he saw his fingers tremble, felt his heart skitter behind his ribs, sucked in a gasp as his underwear instantly seemed to shrink. He looked up, knowing his face was red, to see Illya smiling his tiny, teasing smile.

Emboldened by the silent challenge, Napoleon slipped his fingers into the warm space between jeans and hips and slid Illya’s pants down. He stared as first curls of dark-blond hair, then a thick erection, came into view. As he bent to push the jeans down he allowed himself to kiss Illya’s flat stomach, feeling his body jump at the contact. Illya’s hands came to rest on his shoulders; he licked Illya’s navel, sucked the soft skin around it, and felt the Russian tremble.

Sliding his hands up the back of those muscled thighs, Napoleon straightened to meet Illya’s gaze, smiling at the evidence of what his touch had wrought. Illya didn’t take his hands from Napoleon’s shoulders as he stepped out of the jeans. Once freed he stood before Napoleon, who shook his head in wonder. He, perhaps, had aged well, but Illya was virtually unchanged from the compact, tautly muscled golden creature he had always been.

“Oh,” Napoleon breathed, one hand trailing along Illya’s backside, the other cupping the soft sac of Illya’s testes, stroking them lovingly. “Beautiful.”

Illya shivered, sighed, his mouth fastening on the sensitive skin of Napoleon’s neck. His body melted against Napoleon’s, bringing the American’s cock to full and rigid alert. His hands roamed down Napoleon’s back.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Napoleon drew his head back. “This is where I belong,” he said. He kissed Illya, withdrew again. “I want to make love to you. But ... I don’t exactly know ... how.” That was not the right word, of course. He knew the methods. What he didn’t know was what Illya wanted, what he would permit — what he hungered for.

Illya smiled — a smile that Napoleon longed to kiss. So he did. When he was done, Illya dropped his head against Napoleon’s collarbone.

“Whatever you want,” he breathed across Napoleon’s chest. Napoleon felt a light touch at his waist, then cooler air on his fevered flesh as his pants and underwear slid down to the floor. Then, a startling moment of weightlessness when Illya seized his shoulders and pushed him backward onto the bed, where he bounced a few times, then laughed in surprise.

“So you think you can push me around, do you?” he said, lying back against the stacked pillows as Illya crawled naked over his body, his eyes locked on Napoleon’s. “Just because you’re rich and famous and I’m ...” Napoleon felt his voice shiver in his throat as Illya lay against him. He swallowed roughly and closed his eyes, wanting to feel every square inch of warm skin as the Russian pressed their bare flesh together from chest to thigh.

Napoleon groaned, arching into Illya’s body, and felt his partner’s return pressure. He clasped Illya’s ass and forced them together, feeling the rhythmic bunching of Illya’s muscles.  The heat of their friction transferred to his cock, stoking the fire inside.

And Illya stopped, kissed his gasping mouth, and said, his own voice slipshod with passion, “Have you ever made love to a man? Or ... vice versa?”

Napoleon forced his eyes open. Illya looked down at him, flushed, his hair askew, his eyes glowing.

Napoleon next forced his voice and brain to attention. “I ... no. Have you?” His hips kept thrusting against Illya’s weight, on their own initiative.

Illya held his gaze, a smile tickling one corner of his mouth. “Do you want to ... be inside me?”

“Oh, god...” Napoleon clenched his teeth, feeling his cock throb at the invitation.

The smile twitched. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Napoleon grabbed his arms and pulled him into a deep, lengthy kiss, trying to ignore the way his cock was screaming for more focused attention. He let go with a nibble to Illya’s bottom lip, smiled, and said:

“That’s a yes please.”

Illya chuckled silently and leaned sideways, reaching into a bedside table drawer. He came out of it with a jar of lubricant.

Napoleon felt a chill in his stomach.  _Fool. Did you expect him to sleep alone for 15 years? Have you?_

“Ah ... is there something you want to tell me?” he said instead, trying to be flip.

Illya, opening the jar, paused, met his eyes, and, as always, read him cold. “Would you like to examine the date on this jar, Agent Solo? Do you need to know exactly how long it has been?”

Chastened, Napoleon backed down before the faint challenge in Illya’s tone. “No. Sorry.” He stroked his partner’s hard thighs, ran his fingers teasingly along Illya’s erection, feeling his body jump. “Let’s just continue, shall we?”

Illya pulled his legs under him and sat up, resting his weight on Napoleon’s thighs and watching him as he opened the jar.

Boldly Napoleon wrapped his hand around Illya’s red-tipped cock, stroking, getting to know the feel of it, the velvet texture, the size, the way it pulsed in his hand as he slowly worked it. He watched Illya’s eyes fall shut and smiled to himself, seizing his own cock in his other hand, working them both in unison, completely together. It felt so good, better than good...

“Wait.”

Napoleon realized he’d closed his eyes again. He opened them. Illya rubbed his hands together in front of his partner and coiled his fingers around Napoleon’s hard-on, stroking up, fast, slick and wet, one hand after another.

Napoleon jerked under him, biting down on the cry in his throat and clutching at Illya’s hands to stop him — although that was the last thing he really wanted.

Smiling, Illya rose above him and eased forward, his own erection bobbing gently as he grasped Napoleon and eased their bodies together, a slick hot joining that made every muscle in Napoleon’s body quiver.

“Ah ...” He arched up uncontrollably, burying himself in his partner, and Illya came down with him, resting his weight against Napoleon’s hips. Napoleon scraped a thin, shuddery breath into his body and began a gentle thrusting. He hadn’t felt anything so tight, so perfect, in years ...

“You ...” He breathed, barely. “... feel ... God ...”

Part of him wanted to savor the sensation, more powerful than he’d ever felt, without visual distraction, but ... this was Illya.

He opened his eyes. His partner bent over him, damp chest heaving, head hanging, jaw clenched, eyes closed as he rode Napoleon. His hands alternately stroked and clutched at Napoleon’s chest as if striving to bring them closer together. The vision surged through Napoleon like lightning. Seeing Illya writhing on top of him was like no aphrodisiac in the world.

“God...Illya...” He clutched at Illya’s taut thighs and pumped his hips, hearing his own gasps and grunts but caring only for the deep moans Illya permitted to escape.

“Napoleon...” The word was a sigh of ecstacy.

Illya arched up, rubbing his hands over his own face in abandon, then reached down to pump his own erection. His lips opened a fraction and his eyes latched onto Napoleon’s face, cool intellect erased by passion, raw need.

It was more than Napoleon could take. He thrust faster, feeling his need build to explosion, watching that same explosion take over Illya’s face and body, hearing Illya call out his name as he came, seeing those strong talented hands work the last drop of ejaculate to spill across his stomach. Illya slumped atop him and Napoleon grabbed him, pulling him close as his hips worked once, twice ... and his own orgasm shuddered blindingly through him, forcing an incoherent cry from his throat as his body throbbed and twitched and emptied into Illya’s.

His entire being limp, Napoleon lay still for a moment before again pressing Illya close to him, drawing breath into his own starved lungs as he listened to Illya’s panting against his ear. He felt Illya’s hands stroking him as the Russian lifted himself tenderly free of Napoleon, to drop bonelessly beside him.

Again Napoleon pulled him close, said softly, “That was incredible.”

He felt the snort of laughter against his sweaty chest, but lllya — amazingly — agreed with him.

“Yes.”

Napoleon became aware of the chilly air in the room against his hot body. It felt good, at the moment. He pressed his lips to the disarray of golden hair before him, said, “You know, for some reason...”

Silence. Then he felt Illya’s head bump lightly against his chin. “What?”

“For some reason, I love you. Why do you suppose that is?”

He felt Illya shift again, then a blanket fell over their bodies. “Because I have the covers.”

Napoleon chuckled again, pulling Illya tight against his chest.

~*~*~

Propped against the headboard, holding Illya and stroking his hair, Napoleon let his gaze wander from the enticing body at his side to the broad windows.

“That’s quite a view you have,” he observed.

“Hm?” Illya didn’t open his eyes.

“St. Paul’s.”

“Yes. I like it. Sometimes I go sit in the sanctuary — when it’s not overflowing with tourists. I find it gives me ... perspective.”

Napoleon looked at Illya, watching the brief faint smile disappear, wondering what it was he’d needed to get perspective on. “Wren would appreciate that,” he said. He returned his gaze to the dome. “It took a long time to build it. Lifetimes of labor. The sweat and muscle of hundreds. But they created something strong and beautiful and inspirational.”

“I hope you’re not leading up to some ridiculous romantic metaphor,” Illya said in his trademark sour tone.

Napoleon grinned, turned to the Russian, now glaring narrowly at him. “I don’t think so. Although you are strong, and beautiful. And inspirational.”

Illya snorted. “Next you’ll say sex with me was a religious experience. Please spare me.”

Napoleon prodded him in the ribs. “You are the most cynical and unromantic human being on the planet. I whisper sweet nothings in your ear, and you don’t hear the sweets, you only hear the nothings.”

Illya got up and went to the window, his nude shape clearly outlined against the curtainless glass. His posture spoke tension, and a chill skittered across Napoleon’s skin.

“Illya?”

Illya shook his head slowly, said, “I love you too deeply for cliches.”

Humbled, Napoleon got up and went to him, pressing himself against Illya’s back, wrapping his arms around him, laying his cheek next to his ear.

“And you know me too well to judge me for the noises I make because I fear the silence.” He kissed Illya’s ear, blinking away the moisture in his eyes.

Illya leaned his head gently into the kiss, but said, “You should not fear the silence with me.”

Napoleon looked out the window at the cathedral. “I don’t think I quite believe it yet.” He glanced at Illya’s still, sober profile. “I know I don’t deserve this, so I don’t believe I have it.”

“It?” Illya said.

“You.”

“Because you were afraid, 15 years ago? Because you are human?” Illya shrugged in Napoleon’s hold. “I was afraid too. It’s in the past.”

Napoleon squeezed him. “Then let’s look at the future instead.”

Illya turned in his hold and kissed him with startling intensity, his arms sliding around Napoleon’s waist to force him even closer. As Illya hungrily savored his mouth, Napoleon felt his body stirring again. Incredibly —  _I’m 50 years old, for Christ’s sake!_  — heat began to build at his groin.

Illya drew away and for a few moments they both caught their breath.

Then Illya said, “The future.”

“Forget the future.” Napoleon pulled Illya against him. “Let’s talk about right now. In fact, let’s not talk.”

Though his own face was flushed and his breathing ragged, Illya stiffened, setting his hands on Napoleon’s chest to create a cooling distance between them.

“No. The future.”

Napoleon sighed. “The future, then.”

Illya sat on the padded bench below the window, looking up at him. The setting sun turned his skin and hair red-gold. “It’s UNCLE, isn’t it? Your past, present and future.”

Napoleon met his gaze. His innate sense of self-defense kept him from answering without thinking. But thinking didn’t change his answer. He sighed.

“I don’t want to spend one more day without you. But ...”

“But you still want to save the world,” Illya finished.

“Some people need to have a cause. A mission.” Napoleon shrugged. “I gave that up, too, for 15 years. That was my second big mistake. I still want to make a difference.”

Illya shook his head, eyes falling shut in exasperation.  _”Si monumentum requiris...”_

Napoleon nodded, smiled, finished the quote.  _”...circumspice._  Except it doesn’t matter if anyone sees what I’ve done once I’m gone. I need to know, now, that I’m doing all I can.”

Illya said nothing. Napoleon watched the struggle on his face.  _And he tells me not to be afraid of the silence._

“Just tell me what you want,” he said finally.

“I’m not going back,” Illya whispered, opening his eyes. “And I don’t want you to go back either. I don’t want you to get killed. I don’t want to live under that shadow.”

“Are you saying that I have to choose?” Napoleon’s voice was no louder than Illya’s had been. He backed up, needing suddenly to move.

“When have I ever told you what to do?” Illya said, resigned. “You asked me what I wanted. I told you.”

Napoleon paced the room. It was large, giving him ample time to think, if he had been able to think. Inside his head was nothing but blackness.

He stopped, now shivering. “What will you do?” He knew he didn’t have to speak the rest of the question.

Illya looked out the window.

“I’ve found that if I don’t see you,” he said, each word considered, painful, “it doesn’t hurt as much. I go numb, eventually. That helps.”

Napoleon swallowed. “You want me to leave?”

Hands clenched on his knees, Illya didn’t speak.

Napoleon nodded, moved to his neatly piled clothes and began to dress, cursing silently at the unsteadiness of his hands. Fully clothed at last, Napoleon said, “I think I need to take a walk through St. Paul’s. I need some perspective.”

Illya said nothing to try to stop him. He didn’t even move as Napoleon left the room.

~*~*~

He’d climbed mountains, rappelled down buildings and slogged through thigh-high snow — and done it tired, drugged and injured. But no steps had ever been so painful as the ones that took him away from Illya and into the cold comfort of St. Paul’s.

He had to admit it had shocked him. He never would have expected Illya — of all people — would want him to quit UNCLE. He’d expected Illya to understand. Hell, he’d expected Illya to come back to UNCLE, with him. He’d expected to have everything back the way it was.

He stopped under the dome, caught by that thought, honest enough to ask himself if he was trying to turn back the clock, to recapture his youth by surrounding himself with the trappings of it. But his heart immediately disabused him of the idea that UNCLE or Illya were mere symbols. Both had meaning to him — indeed, between them they meant everything to him.

_Illya wants you to choose. But you won’t choose one, and can’t choose the other._

Napoleon glanced at the distant entrance, still angry and confused but halfway to a decision to go back and simply argue it out with the man he still — always — thought of as his partner.

Amid the slow outflow of tourists his eye was caught by a small blond figure in a long black coat. He paused by the doors, then moved against the flow, deftly avoiding the departing hordes, his movements unhurried, familiar.

Joy flooded Napoleon’s body — he almost laughed at the sacrilege of it. Then the doubt washed back in.

_He’s here. That doesn’t mean he’s changed his mind._  And Napoleon knew that he couldn’t change his own, even if it meant that, again, he would have to exist, half-alive, without Illya. He couldn’t quit UNCLE for Illya’s sake. Hell, Illya couldn’t even bring himself to ask it. They both knew it would be wrong.  The only way it could happen was for Napoleon to choose to leave UNCLE. Not because Illya wanted it, but because he did. And he didn’t. Not yet.

He gazed upward at the dome. His stillness, among the people passing to and fro, made him a target. Not something he would normally do, but he wanted to be seen and to make the point.

He felt Illya nearing him and brought his gaze down, knowing he wasn’t as calm as he would have liked. Illya’s expression was hard, unreadable. But he was there.

He met Napoleon in the middle, and Napoleon, heedless of the passing tourists, took the opportunity to say, “I love you.”

“Napoleon,” Illya hissed, moving closer, glancing around. He touched Napoleon’s arm, a warning. “Times haven’t changed that much.”

Napoleon shook his head and caught his partner in a hard hug. “I don’t care,” he said in Illya’s ear, letting him go quickly enough that it would seem to any observers that he was merely delighted to see a good friend.

“Gentlemen,” a passing docent cautioned, not pausing in her passage through the cathedral.

Illya backed away a little, flushed. “Are there any rules you respect, Napoleon?”

“Not if they keep me away from you,” Napoleon said, smiling at Illya’s discomfiture.

“Will you lower your voice?” Illya pulled at his sleeve and they started toward the doors, blending in with the now-thinning crowd.

“You do have your reputation to protect,” Napoleon said. “I can see the headline: ‘Famous fashion designer, aging spy caught in tryst in London cathedral.’“

“This is a quarrel, Napoleon,” Illya said, aplomb restored. “Not a tryst.”

No longer amused, Napoleon said, “It’s not a quarrel. I ... I don’t disagree with you. I understand what you’re feeling.”

Illya shook his head and chuckled softly. “I thought I understood that too. Until you left tonight. Then I really understood.”

Napoleon waited for more, but Illya remained silent until they were outside, on the steps of the cathedral. Rain misted down and the crowds had dispersed into the dusk.

Napoleon caught Illya’s arm, turning him to face him. “I’m not leaving you again,” he vowed.

“So it’s on my shoulders,” Illya interpreted. “You expect me to end it.”

Napoleon felt his face fall as his heart crumbled. “Illya—”

“No.” The Russian stopped him, one hand flat on his chest. “Don’t. We both know it can’t be like that. I can’t ask you to quit UNCLE any more than you can volunteer to quit for me. It would ruin this ...” He gestured between them, tracing the invisible lifeline they shared. “... whatever this is that we have always had.”

“I think the word you’re groping for is trust,” Napoleon said.

Illya smiled, not happily. “I think it is respect.”

Napoleon considered that; it had the ring of truth. He might ask Illya, once, to come back to UNCLE, but he would not ask again. To do so would be to treat the Russian’s decisions and desires as whims, as less important than his own. That he would never do — no more than Illya would do it to him.

Illya glanced up the cathedral as the floodlights clanked on. “I wanted you to be safe. Then I realized — the opposite of alive, for you, isn’t dead. It’s safe.” The expression he turned upon Napoleon, blended love and exasperation, was so beguiling Napoleon knew he could happily look at it for the next 50 years.

“You forgive me for being a ... thrill seeker?” Napoleon asked.

“You are as you are, Napoleon,” Illya said. “When I realized I wouldn’t have you any other way, I knew I’d ...  lost that battle.”

Napoleon simply looked at him, wondering if what he was feeling showed in his face. When Illya reddened and lowered his own eyes, the corners of his mouth tweaking upward, Napoleon had his answer.

“Come on,” the Russian said brusquely, tugging at his arm. “I have a car waiting.”

“You have a car waiting?” Napoleon echoed. “Oh, that’s right. I keep forgetting I’m in love with a stinking rich, world famous fashion designer.” He followed Illya away from the cathedral, caught up with him, walking shoulder to shoulder. He caught his partner’s wrist, slid his fingers between Illya’s and squeezed, and the Russian smiled.

“Speaking of which ...” Illya began slyly.

“Love?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“No.”

“Fame?”

“Fashion.” Illya glanced sidelong at him and Napoleon, utterly content, braced himself for a typical Kuryakin barb. Typically, Illya surprised him.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your suits ...”

The End

_Si monumentum requiris, circumspice._

If you seek his monument, look around.

— Epitaph on Christopher Wren’s tomb in St. Paul’s Cathedral

Thanks to Di T. for her eagle eye.

 


End file.
